


A Study in Repression

by ElleBrittany



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, BAMF John, Dirty Talk, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Drama, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Power Play, Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock, complete work, domestic life, mild foot fetish but not really, surprise feels, the nature of addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleBrittany/pseuds/ElleBrittany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By a strange turn of events, Sherlock is forced to reconcile his feelings toward his flatmate and confront his addictive nature.</p><p>update: IT'S FINISHED /falls over<br/>update: oh my goodness! thank you all SO VERY MUCH for 10,000 hits. I can't even describe my gratitude, thank you so much!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Definite Sign of Nerves

Sherlock awoke crumpled on the sofa, limbs akimbo, jaw slack, drooling on the cushions. He bolted upright and winced at the assault of the unrelenting glare which was flooding the sitting room. It had to be at least noon, probably later, judging by the length of the shadow he was casting. He wrenched his eyes open a bit wider, and gave them a good rub.

 “Have you got the time?” he asked the skull. The skull didn’t have the time. Mornings were always a pain.

He checked his mobile, observed that it was almost 1, saw the string of three texts from Mycroft and hissed at the one which read _get up._   Decked the phone across the flat and strode off into the kitchen. The kettle was still slightly warm and there were crumbs in the sink – no doubt John had eaten his toast right here as he often did when he was running late.

            He clicked the kettle back on and darted back across the room. He opened his laptop, checked his blog. No cases. Peered out the window. Street was empty. There was some commotion coming from Speedy’s – probably a birthday party. There was a smell of candy floss – caramel – icing – yes, definitely a birthday party. He sniffed the air intently, detecting a hint of cinnamon and pumpkin – Mrs. Hudson had prepared scones for the party, and she’d even burnt them a little.

            “MRS. HUDSON!!” he shouted as the kettle hissed. He was right then; she’d agreed to cater the affair.

            A few hours later Sherlock was lying on his back, plucking his violin in some lauded attempt to quell his burgeoning need for a cigarette. There were no cases. There was nothing to do. He shouted at the telly, sipped his tea, debated going for a shower, didn’t see the need for it when he had nowhere to be. Checked on his yeast samples. No observable change. There wouldn’t be an observable change for at least another day. Nothing to do. Nothing to do. He shouted for Mrs. Hudson again, thought of a way to convince her to pick up a pack of fags for him. Tried to conjure a way to keep Mycroft’s bulbous nose out of it. Phoned Lestrade. Didn’t feel like leaving a voicemail. Text to Lestrade: _Nothing more on the ambassador’s missing tie-clip?_ As if he cared. Text to John: _I’m bored._ Text to Mycroft: _Piss off._ He idly considered having a wank. Would it help? It would be something to do. He peeked into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, gave his limp cock a languid nudge. It probably wouldn’t help. It never really did. Decided against it.

He picked up a statistics almanac from the early twentieth century and went about making corrections. He leafed through John’s medical books, reclined with John’s laptop on his belly as he studied his flatmate’s browser history. Boring. Read his emails. Dull. Sampled the last pornographic video he’d been watching; an orgy with three young women. Marginally interesting. Sherlock scowled at the women. The blonde wasn’t a real blonde, in fact she hadn’t been in for a dye job in at least a month – the brunette was clearly suffering from cirrhosis of the liver (likely an alcoholic) considering the sickly yellow twinge to her skin and nails. There was a red-headed woman as well, and Sherlock was utterly perplexed by her black pubic bush. Was that phenotypically possible? _How_ was that phenotypically possible? He pushed the laptop aside, withdrew a pen from the coffee table, and proceeded to draw a Punnett square on the last page of _Gray’s Anatomy._

Sherlock’s ears perked a little as the sounds of John’s footsteps reverberated throughout the sitting room. He always knew when John was home. The doctor’s gait, although now completely level, was still a touch uneven, with the left foot slapping each step a bit harder and faster than the right – therefore gait was therefore more of a gallop, a canting, really. Sherlock muttered the rhythm aloud as the footsteps grew nearer: _ta-TAH-ta-TAH-ta-TAH_. He also remembered that conjuring a Punnett square was going to be anything but helpful, and he flung the text book and pen across the room. Perhaps he should have gone for a shower, at least then he could have had a wank discreetly. He’d never really seen the appeal of masturbating in the shower, though. It was hard to see through the water and steam, and the white tiling made it damn near impossible to catalogue his ejaculatory output. Additionally, water was very likely the worst lubricant in the world.

“John,” he barked the split second before his flatmate came into the room. “Do be a dear and get me a pack of cigarettes.” He swiveled his eyes in the direction of the door to survey the doctor’s reaction. John was looking anything but tolerant today. His trainers were caked with mud and leaves; his hair and windbreaker were soaked.

“Oh, is it raining?”

“Brilliant deduction, that,” said John as he kicked off his filthy shoes and surveyed the sitting room. Every inch of the place was littered with the detritus of Sherlock’s boredom.

“Sorry about the mess,” yawned Sherlock.

He watched as John stripped off his jacket, revealing the familiar beige cable-knit jumper, and walked into the kitchen presumably in search of sustenance. Sherlock loved watching John. Everything about the man’s movements was deliberate – _mindful_. John was careful, and he did not move without purpose, although he sometimes moved without thought. Sherlock found this soothing, as this sort of listless behavior had never come naturally to him. There was an incredible intimacy that came with living with such a weathered person, and if Sherlock had held any inkling towards the idea of a soul, he would have ventured that his John was an old soul. Yes, John was _his_ , even if the army doctor didn’t know it. He must have known it by now, though. All of those girlfriends came and went, but he always came back to Sherlock.

“I knew you were knackered but I didn’t know you were _that_ knackered,” mumbled John. He didn’t need to elaborate; it was perfectly obvious that he was referencing the fact that Sherlock was usually awake when John left for the surgery. Even if he was still smothered in bed, he was still conscious enough to bark out some nondescript order as his flatmate prepared to leave: “We’re out of milk,” or “Stop buying decaf,” and occasionally, “You should really pick up smoking, John. You aren’t getting any younger.”

He watched as John clicked on the kettle and located the pile of Mrs. Hudson’s leftover pumpkin scones (she’d stopped by at one point, but Sherlock couldn’t remember seeing or hearing her come in. That was odd. Had he fallen asleep? He’d probably fallen asleep. When had he fallen asleep?) and jammed it in his mouth.

“You don’t usually do _that_ , though,” said John, gesturing to the mess in the sitting-room.

“How do you mean?” Sherlock prodded John’s laptop shut with the pad of his finger. “Don’t I always do that?”

“No, I mean falling asleep on the sofa like that. During your favorite programme. With your shoes on.”

“You know I was awake for three days. There hasn’t been a case in _three days,_ John. Lestrade’s got me hunting down some lost tie clip – Mrs. Hudson’s hosting _birthday parties_ \-- my brain’s gone rotten, I can feel it coming out of my ears. And you won’t even buy caffeinated _tea_. You won’t even give me a pack of fags.”

“Sherlock, for god’s sake, you know where they are, you don’t even need me to fetch them.”

Of course he knew where they were, that wasn’t the bloody point – he wanted John to fetch them, it would show that he cared, or expressed sentiment toward him. Yes, Sherlock wanted John to find the cigarettes, hand them over, and maybe even light him up. He opened his mouth to explain this, but John talked over him.

“And you know I’m not letting you smoke inside anyway.”

“Damn!”

The kettle hissed, and John poured two cups of tea.

“What’d you end up doing all day, then? Besides trashing the place and neglecting to bathe.”

“What does _that_ matter?” Sherlock tutted as he rose from the sofa and joined his flatmate in the kitchen. He hated when John pointed out his lazy approach to grooming when he was off-duty.

“I spent the entire day in the flat. I didn’t go anywhere. I didn’t even sweat.” He pulled the neckline of his t-shirt open, ducked his nose in for a sniff. There was a slight smell of chemicals and perspiration, and he winced at this.

“Alright, I’ll take a shower. Later.”

“Good,” John smiled, sipping his tea. Sherlock picked up his mug and gulped the tea indignantly.

“You’ve been using my computer. Been watching those videos again, have you?”

“I only watched one.”

“And?”

“Do you know anything about the probability of a naturally red-haired person having black pubic hair?”

John simply shrugged – this was something else Sherlock liked about John – he was terminally unimpressed. None of those abrupt, “rude” questions stunned him anymore. He wasn’t even bothered by Sherlock’s latest collection of shrunken heads, which he’d strung up and draped over the fireplace.

“Well,” the doctor said, draining the last of his tea. “Most fair-haired people tend to have darker hair down there.”

Sherlock gave John a quick once-over from head to toe. “Do you?”

“Er, well, yeah."

“Show me.”

“You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

The doctor was smirking and shaking his head, and even standing with arms akimbo, but Sherlock could detect a slight flush staining his face. He’d seen John’s body in bits and pieces, and was able to put together a collage in his mind of what his flatmate might look like naked. He’d seen the raised scar which blemished the left shoulder. It was dark pink and spanned the flesh in a shape resembling a bloated asterisk, and Sherlock had often wondered how John might react if he touched it. If he kissed it. He’d also seen the doctor’s bare back, which was wide and supple. He’d seen the stomach, which was toned but retained the slightest podge – and how adoring said podge was, and how endearing was the flurry of darkish blonde hair which warped from the navel. Sherlock continued to scan his memory for other bits and pieces of John’s body – that’s right, he’d even seen the tops of John’s thighs (glanced that them once when John walked out of the shower in his pants, having forgotten his trousers. Sherlock had always wondered why John exhibited such an aversion to parading in his own nudity – Sherlock didn’t exactly make any efforts to hide himself, and was actually rather prone to sleeping in the nude and wandering the flat in just a bed-sheet. The only reason he’d been wearing pyjamas this time was because Mrs. Hudson had expressed some interest in coming by to drop off her leftover scones. Why hadn’t he heard her come in?)

“John,” said Sherlock, remembering where he was. “Come on.”

“Haven’t you seen enough corpses by now to figure things out? Can’t you…I dunno, can’t you Google it?” 

“Don’t be daft.” Sherlock kept his voice and expression perfectly saturnine. “This is for a very particular experiment.”

“That reminds me. You really ought to check your messages." The doctor laughed again. (It was not a genuine laugh, more of a forced exhalation though the nostrils. A definite sign of nerves.) “Mycroft’s been texting me nonstop. He’s trying to contact you. Didn’t say what it was about, though.”

Sherlock scowled. There was no way he was going to let John try to evade his request by bringing up Mycroft.

 “I just want to see the _hair_. I’m not asking you to get naked. For god’s sake, John.”

John threw his arms up dramatically. “All right. Fine. If it’ll shut you up. _Fine_.”

Sherlock could see the fatigue creasing John’s face; the man was clearly only obliging him out of weariness, and he felt his resolve soften at this. He watched as John flipped his jumper up, just slightly, to reveal a slice of his abdomen, the indentation of his navel, the slight dip in a small layer of fat, the spiral of fuzzy hair which led directly between the hips. Sherlock lifted a hand to his face to hide the fact that he was licking his lips. John sighed, rolled his eyes, and unbuttoned his trousers, inching them down just a few centimeters – just enough to reveal the top of the triangular patch of hair above his groin. Sherlock stared. The hair was manicured; clearly regularly trimmed. And, most importantly, it was darker than the hair on the man’s head. An ashen, rusty light brown. Sherlock scoffed and cleared his throat.

“Yes, yes that’s very interesting." He waved at John to pull his trousers up. “Tuck yourself away, then. I didn’t ask for a bloody peep show.”

“Yes you did.” John playfully waggled his hips. “You want to see the rest?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and smirked in preparation for his great lie:

 “I’d rather not, thanks.”

 “You’ve actually gone red.” John sounded legitimately surprised. He zipped up his trousers and refilled his cup. “Never thought I’d make you blush, of all things.”

Sherlock could gather that John meant nothing by this, but now his need for a cigarette was just short of palpable. He simply glared at John before shuffling off to his bedroom to slap on a nicotine patch and fetch a clean set of pyjamas, and then he promptly locked himself in the bath. As he stripped off his clothes and stepped under the shower, he observed that his body was actively betraying him. His cock was standing up, fully engorged. He stared at it for a full half minute, rolling his hips forward and then back, watching as it swung lazily from side to side. “That what you want?” he muttered. Surprisingly, it twitched, as though nodding in agreement. This was John’s doing.

John.

Of course.

He knew full well already that he liked John. Of course he liked John, he liked to be near his flatmate, he’d be lost without his blogger. Liking someone wasn’t the same as fancying them, though. Fancying someone meant wanting to jump into bed naked with them, and then doing all sorts of unspeakable things. Did he want to do such things with John? The more he thought about it, the more he found that the answer was probably, definitely, yes. He was thinking of it now. The juxtaposition of the thick woolen jumper and the smooth expanse of skin. The beige knit against the beige flesh. The hands, small but nimble, as they inched the trousers ever so slightly down. The sashay of the hips. The sashay of the hips. John’s hips. Sashaying, of all things...

 Sherlock sighed, realizing that he was now engaged in a battle of wills against his own prick: the arousal refused to abate, but he refused to indulge. To masturbate at a time like this would represent surrendering to the flesh, and amount to little more than chasing an unrequited wish. It would be worse than going back to the needle.

He stood like this, head bowed under the overhot shower for what seemed like a long time. When he finally emerged, the bathroom was thick with smoke and it was hard to breathe. He carelessly toweled dry and struggled to slide his slick legs into his boxers, feeling his chest tighten as he yanked the fabric over his traitorous cock, still half-hard. Footsteps approached the door and there was a sound of knocking. John. Obviously. 


	2. A Sound of Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to help. Sherlock threatens bloody murder.

Sherlock stared at the door, half expecting it to swing open. So very like his doctor to come sniffing round to exploit his weakness at a time like this. He hadn’t bothered to lock the door. He didn’t usually lock it, but John always did. He cleared his throat, not bothering with his t-shirt or pyjama bottoms – it was much too hot, the room too full of humid steam. He tossed his dressing gown over his bare shoulders as the door opened slightly, ushering a good deal of the dewy fog out of the room.

“Sherlock? Are you all right?”

 “Why wouldn’t I be all right?” Sherlock asked, keeping his tone perfectly cool and unaffected.

“You’ve been in here for an hour, you do realize.”

“No I haven’t.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“What?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, John. I’m fine.”

“I can tell when you’re not fine.”

Sherlock sighed and picked up the pyjamas, swung the door open all the way, filled his lungs with cold air as great tendrils of steam flooded the corridor, and without meaning to, he walked straight into John’s chest. The chest was adamant. The man was unmovable. Just as rigid as he was. God, his John…

 “Look at me.” John grabbed Sherlock’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “What’s the matter? You’ve been acting weird all evening.”

Sherlock narrowed his gaze.

“You know what I mean,” John said quickly. “Weird for you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John rolled up the (right) sleeve of the dressing gown and revealed the nicotine patch which was slightly damp and stuck to the flesh on Sherlock’s forearm.

“What’s this then?”

 “Leave me alone,” Sherlock snapped, snatching his arm away just enough to gain the momentum required to throw a punch, but – and this surprised him – John was _quicker_ than he was, and caught his wrist tightly, holding the straining fist away from his face. Sherlock turned around, tried to take the doctor by surprise with an elbow to the gut, but John merely leaned out of the way and caught Sherlock round the middle. The pyjamas fluttered to the ground. Sherlock looked down, horrified at the sight of John’s hands clasped around his waist.

“Let me go!” he wriggled against the restraint but John was clever (of course) and kept his elbows locked to his sides. Sherlock had seen John use this tactic numerous times before – and now he’d walked right into it.

“Sherlock, I think you’ve made it fairly obvious that you are not all right.”

Sherlock was only half-listening; his head felt about ready to explode. He was teeming with pent-up frustration, and he hadn’t been prepared to confront himself let alone confront John. None of this was fair, and now the energy had no choice but to be redirected.

“Get off me or I’ll murder you in your sleep,” he spat, and in the moment he could have sworn he actually meant it. John said nothing, just kept holding him tight.

“I’ve thought about it before,” he continued, eyes growing wide as his adrenaline levels spiked – “I think about it all the time, actually. Killing you would be _easy_. Carboxylic anhydride, do you know it? Of course you don’t. Odourless, tasteless – I could lock you in a room with it, John. Or I could lace your tea – after all, you aren’t going to run routine toxicology reports on your morning cuppa, are you now? You’re growing careless, Doctor. I could erase you from history. Watch me.”

“Sherlock,” John said with an exasperated sigh. Sherlock prattled on:

“John Watson? Who’s that? Perished in the war, didn’t he? Oh, what a shame, he was such a good man, a good nice man. I could dissolve your bones, John. I could have your head on a stake. Maybe next time it’ll be your skull on the mantelpiece. I could do it. They’d never know it was me.”

“They would all know it was you." Sherlock fought harder, realizing that his verbal assault was all for naught; and worse, realizing that John was absolutely _right_ – and then he started kicking. John held him steady all the while. Of course the doctor was unaffected by these antics after more than a year of dealing with them secondhand. Perhaps by now he’d even learned to expect them.

“It’s all right, calm down,” was all John said, his tone perfectly unimpressed. Why did his voice sound so _different_?  

“I know what you need.”

“You don’t know anything,” Sherlock snarled, practically foaming at the mouth. “You’re an _idiot_.”

John said nothing (his silence was especially troubling) but kept his arms tightly wrapped round Sherlock’s waist. His dominant (left) hand coaxed Sherlock’s chin down, exposing the back of his neck. The hand then gently slid the dressing gown down around Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock felt John’s lips, warm and dry, pressing into the cleft between his scapulae. A strange involuntary tremor made his body seize, and he gritted his teeth in frustration.

“ _Don’t do that_ ,” he hissed, but it was useless. John kissed him again; right there, on the upper spine, between C7 and Th1. Sherlock sighed, bit his lip, drummed his fingers against his thigh.

“All right. I don’t want to _kill_ you.”

“Yes, yes, I know." Of course he knew. This was another thing Sherlock was beginning to appreciate about his doctor, especially at a time like now – he never had to explain his pesky ineffable emotional responses. He never had to explain anything about himself, really, because John already understood him completely. Again John buried his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and nuzzled the flesh there, even trailing up to kiss the spot behind his ear. Sherlock heard himself make a strange sound, a sort of breathy, contented growl.

“John…”

“Mmm?”

“I don’t know why I said those things.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock.”

“Forgive me.”

“You don’t have to apologize; I’m just trying to help. Thought that was fairly obvious by now…”

Sherlock felt marginally offended. It hadn’t been obvious at all to him. He was getting a little exasperated with himself, though, so he didn’t complain. John’s dominant (left) hand was now toying with the elastic of his pants, and, as if on cue, his prick was standing to attention.

“Do you want me to?” John asked.

“What?” Sherlock caught a glimpse of his reflection – he was blushing obscenely, and he tried to lean away from John’s hand. “Do I want you to what?”

“You know what.”

 “John,” Sherlock sighed. “You’re not really going to, are you? Not after I threatened to dissolve your bones.”

“I will if you want me to.”

“Because I wouldn’t,” he murmured as he pressed his cock into John’s hand. “I wouldn’t dissolve your bones.” The words blurred together in a frustrated sigh.

“Never mind that. Do you want this or not?”

Sherlock groaned and trembled against John’s hand, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to will the unrelenting static to clear from his brain. Of course he wanted it (even though he wasn’t sure what “it” was) but he also didn’t want to say yes. Saying yes was too easy. Saying yes meant “ _I am weak and I surrender._ ” And yet, here he was. Here was John, his flatmate, his doctor, his _best friend_ , clearly admitting that he fancied Sherlock, perhaps that he even wanted to jump into bed naked and do all of those unseemly things – but wasn’t that what he wanted too? Perhaps for the first time in his adult life he actually didn’t know what he wanted. It didn’t matter, though, as John’s fingers were now teasing him though the opening of the boxers, and suddenly his cock was being cradled in his doctor’s hand – a perfect fit – and he was even oozing all over it. Every bit of his higher processing was now hyper-focused on the two maddeningly simple sensations: his cock, painfully erect, and John’s hand, warm and waiting.

            Sherlock fought back a moan, and said bluntly, “Since when do you even like _men_?”

John sighed dramatically. He’d clearly had this discussion before, probably with a former lover, and it wasn’t a topic he particularly enjoyed breaching.

“Well, _you know_ ,” he started – Sherlock pursed his lips at this because he hated that idle empty phrase – “I like women obviously, but every now and again I’ll have a bloke. It isn’t black and white for everyone, _you know_ , there’s a lot of grey in between. Let’s just say I fall somewhere on the grey scale.”

Sherlock nodded, though he hadn’t really been listening. The teasing was almost too much – now he was bobbing about, gritting his teeth.

“John,” he whined. “I’m too close.” _I am weak and I surrender._

“You’ll be fine,” John said coolly, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Then get on with it.”

John withdrew his hand and worked the boxers down. They fell around Sherlock’s ankles and he obediently stepped out of them, now clad only in the dressing gown, which was still draped around his shoulders.

John’s hands traversed the length of Sherlock’s torso, tracing circles under his collarbones, leaving fading patches of transferred heat on his upper thighs. “ _God_ ,” Sherlock said. It took a lot to get him to blaspheme in this incongruous manner, to call so blatantly on divine assistance which he thought nonexistent. He grabbed John’s straying (left) hand and guided it back down to his cock. The doctor hissed softly in his ear. It was a sound of quietude, a sound of calm. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as the hand curled around his erection.  

“Oh, god,” he moaned again. Why was he so close?

“Why am I so close?” he asked. John smiled and murmured something about how sexy it was that he was so sensitive but Sherlock wasn’t really listening; he was panting and sighing and slightly panicking over the loss of control of his voluntary processing. How could something so paltry as _the desire to ejaculate_ condemn him to this Neolithic behavior, to communicating in grunts and groans, letting the _sex instinct_ override his analytical—

“Do you want some lube or anything?” John’s tone was clinical, but earnest.

“Not now, _just get on with it_.”

John gripped Sherlock’s length a bit tighter, rolling the foreskin over the head once, twice, before settling into an even rhythm. It was _unfathomable_ how different John’s touch was from his own. Sherlock only masturbated out of boredom, rarely out of lust – but even the best of his solitary sessions paled in comparison to _this_ , to John’s hand simply working him reliably, deliberately. Sherlock arched his hips forward. He wanted to fuck John’s hand, but he also didn’t want to take the lead. He groaned in frustration before realizing that he wasn’t even counting the strokes. He _never_ masturbated without counting the strokes. (His average was 81; two minutes and seventeen seconds. What was John’s? Would he ever find out?)

“Is this all right?” John asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but his brain was full of white noise and he only succeeded in nodding. John tightened his grip, catching the ample secretions of pre-ejaculate on the tip of his finger and rubbing Sherlock with it. The sensation was ridiculous, hot, sticky, and rough. This clearly wasn’t John’s first time handling another man and Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about that but for some reason he didn’t have the capacity to worry about it now. All that mattered was that John was _skilled_. His technique was simple but efficient; never straying far from the head, thumb flat on top, first two fingers applying friction to the frenulum. Sherlock sighed and bucked his hips forward almost against his will, suddenly acutely aware that John’s cock was hard and pulsing and pressing right up against his arse.

“Oh, fuck,” Sherlock moaned loudly, overcome with endorphins and the unabashed ecstasy of surrender. For some reason he then said “Fuck _me_.”

“Is that an order?” John asked huskily.

“Yes,” he panted.

“Is it what you always wanted?”

Sherlock nodded. He was standing on his toes now, dangerously close.

“Want me to shag you after this?”

 “God, yes, John, I’m – _ahh_ –”

The last of that profound sentiment was swallowed as John slipped his fingers into Sherlock’s open mouth. He closed his lips around them, allowing the digits to depress his tongue. The last thing he heard was John murmuring “ _Let me see you come_ ,” and before either of them knew it he was biting down on John’s fingers, moaning through his teeth and spurting all over the tile, coming so hard that he had to brace himself with both hands on the edge of the sink. John rubbed Sherlock’s swollen lips with a slick finger and milked him until he was through.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he observed that a gooey ribbon had landed on the mirror and was obscuring his reflection obscenely. He kept staring at his face in the mirror; sweat was dripping off his chin like hot wax, and even though he’d just showered he’d never felt filthier in his life. For some reason that was fine. It was all fine.

“Feel better?” John asked with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock nodded and quickly pulled his pants back on. His legs felt unusually wobbly, anything but solid, and his brain was reeling, filled to the brim with discordant noise. He stumbled out of the bathroom, not even thinking about the mess on the sink and mirror – he’d deal with it later – and staggered into the sitting room, collapsing onto the sofa with his head between his knees. His brain felt ready to burst; it would take time for him to process all of this new and confusing information.

 “All right?” John asked, perching on the sofa.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock mumbled. He continued to cradle his head, ruffling his hair for good measure. He then cleared his throat, and glanced up at John. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” John laughed as he rose from the sofa, yawned and stretched, and headed off in the direction of his bedroom. “Glad I could help. I’m off to bed.”

“What?” Sherlock looked up sharply, his eyes bugging out of his skull – “What about – _you said you wanted to shag me_ ,” he said petulantly, stamping over to the foot of the stairs.

“Maybe tomorrow,” John said, yawning again. “I’m knackered and I’ve got to work in the morning. Good night.”

Good night indeed! Sherlock scowled and yanked his laptop out from under the sofa cushions. There was no way in hell he was sleeping tonight.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, left kudos, and otherwise encouraged me. I'm absolutely thrilled with the feedback I've received so far! <3
> 
> The next chapter should be up before the New Year :)


	3. The Julia Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reflects on his past and tries to become a sex expert overnight.

Just as planned, Sherlock stayed up all night with his laptop open next to John’s, eyes glazed and unblinking as they scanned both screens at the same time. He was so absorbed that he barely registered John emerging from his room and going through the ritual of his morning routine, and he only just remembered to bark something about the lack of biscuits in the flat before John left. He made sure John was really gone twice, no, thrice, before he turned the sitting room upside down looking for any and every text which had anything to report about the nuances of anal sex.

Until last night Sherlock had simply believed that he lacked the capacity to be sexually compatible with another human being, hence why he preferred to stimulate himself. Furthermore he had never given much, if any, conscious thought regarding his sexual preferences, as he’d learned early enough that sex was a tedious exercise which clearly invited more problems than it relieved. During his two year stint at Cambridge he observed the full spectrum of undesirable circumstances which resulted from coital encounters: the constant fussing over infectious disease, the strain on interpersonal relationships, the inevitable infidelity, and the overarching fear of unintentional reproduction. If that was the case, he wondered, why bother with any of it?

Of course he fundamentally understood that other people experienced a physical response which was nigh-on-impossible to resist and useless to deny. But was that not the purpose of masturbation? His fellow underclassmen often divulged such matters, and thus he arrived at the conclusion through observation alone: wanking was for social _invalids_ : those deemed sexually unworthy, unbecoming, unpopular, or otherwise undesirable. Self-pleasuring was what one did as a child, in the confines of one’s own room; the confines of one’s own shame. But sexual intercourse was _not_ shameful, it was for flaunting, for boasting; it stood as a marker of one’s interpersonal relevance. For the males especially, such behavior was treated as something of a rite of passage. His fellow classmen berated him for his lack of interest in sex, and many of them ascertained that he was a closeted homosexual. He was certainly not a homosexual (and if he had been he wouldn’t have been “closeted”); but neither was he heterosexual, as he perceived men and women in more or less the same light; equally uninteresting and equally undesirable. Men were too brutish; women too bellicose. Other people just didn’t stimulate him in that way; people were boring, stupid, and predictable. The only things which interested him were his classes, his books, his research, and the heat of his own mind.

Of course, he did pleasure himself from time-to-time. These incidents were rare and arose out of boredom or for matters of maintaining his reproductive health. They took place, ninety-nine percent of the time, beneath his bedclothes while everyone else was prowling about in some pub. He would bring himself to orgasm while thinking about the things which he found beautiful, or, rather, admirable; patterns and ordered systems: the Fibonacci sequence, the Cantor function, the Julia set.

These patterns, although predictable, were not predicable in the way that people were. People were fickle, unreliable, and _narcissistic_ – even more so than Sherlock was, which he’d found only marginally alarming. He had always had an easier time relating to symbols and numbers, whether in the form of times, dates, or addresses. Cryptograms and word puzzles enlivened him like nothing else, kept his brain awake, and he quickly developed a knack for cracking codes. These things, like maths, were comforting in their uniformity. Even his penchant for music was rooted in a fascination with ordered systems. Everything had to do with precise _structure_. Notes were divided into fractions, time signatures neatly determined the length and breath of the notes, and even the remedial details, such as the chromatic scale, were contingent upon a basic, _consistent_ numeric structure – twelve notes, no more, no less, no matter what the key. Another interest he picked up at Uni was an insatiable (one might have called it obsessive) fascination with testing his neurological reactions to various psychoactive stimulants. Everything initially yielded promising results. After a month of experimenting, he found he didn’t need to eat or sleep anymore; he could sustain himself indefinitely with his books, his research, and his music. Best of all, none of these activities required looking another person in the face, and, naturally, he eventually learned to live without socialization of any kind.

Of course, this turned out to be detrimental. After a few too many instances of insulting his “superiors” and turning up to classes in a “fairly obvious drug-addled mania,” he finally managed to get himself sent down. What a massive inconvenience that had been, that whole business with the “addiction.” Everyone else saw it as some huge problem, some huge _shame_ , when in reality the drugs had honed his intellect to its finest point, kept his moodiness in check, kept him from abusing others out of boredom, or worse, doing so to himself. In between all the years of faffing about at home and then being shipped off to rehab, and then dealing with relapse after relapse after bloody relapse, and then his eventual meeting with a certain Detective Inspector Lestrade – he’d never quite found the time or the motivation to properly analyze his own sexual needs. Not until last night.

Last night. It was like a dream even though he hadn’t slept. The memory was quick – _staccato_ – he grasped for it in the dark – John’s hands, slow and soft; his lips, warm and dry. His cock, stiff and pulsing, pressing into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. What surprised him the most, however, was not John’s sexual prowess, but his unwavering placidity, and even more so, his apparent indifference to the prospect of becoming lovers. It briefly occurred to Sherlock that John probably didn’t think he was a virgin, at least not anymore, not after he’d put up such little resistance to getting tossed off while standing up hunched over the bathroom sink, and especially not after Sherlock had blatantly asked John to _fuck_ him. Sherlock had always prided himself on maintaining a neutral approach towards sex and intimacy, which was easy because he abstained from these things. The idea that John shared this sentiment, however, was slightly worrying _because_ John was very sexual, and he wasn’t exactly discreet. He almost always had a girlfriend, and when he didn’t have a girlfriend he often went out carousing at pubs. Sherlock had encountered the vestiges of these encounters: several torn-off corners from packets of condoms, a pair of lacy pink knickers, and loads of phone numbers scribbled on the backs of coasters or napkins. Considering how experienced John was, and the fact that the man clearly preferred having sex with women, his passivity towards becoming intimate with Sherlock was more than a little intimidating.

Regardless of whether or not John’s intentions surpassed the strictly physical, Sherlock wasn’t going to pass up the chance to have sex with the first person with whom he’d experienced romantic and sexual attraction. He could live without becoming John’s boyfriend (though he wouldn’t have minded) as they were already inseparable, but he refused to live another second without knowing how the doctor was as a lover. He also wanted to show John that even though he was a virgin he wasn’t completely clueless, and so he got to work. The fog in his brain had finally receded, as now he had _something to do_ , something new and fascinating at that: to try to learn _everything_ about sex, to figure out what he liked, and maybe get some preliminary practice in before John returned home from work.

His findings were amazing. He learned all about the complicated mechanics of anal penetration, and the role he would have to play in all this as the reciprocative partner. He watched some more videos, read some more articles, learned that as a virgin he’d have to stretch himself before he’d be anywhere near ready to accommodate the girth of an erect penis. He rummaged around the flat for any phallic objects that he could practice with. He already had a tube of lubricant so that wouldn’t be a problem, but none of the items in his room were suitable. He idly remembered that there were some test tubes in the kitchen, but they were full of pus and made of glass. Not good.

He huffed and returned to the sofa, briefly considering stealing one of Mrs. Hudson’s prizewinning cucumbers. He regretted to admit that she was clever, though, and would probably catch on to what he was up to. Finally Sherlock resolved to simply recline on the sofa, naked from the waist down, with John’s laptop poised precariously on his chest as he read an incredibly detailed article about prostate stimulation. He’d never known about this before, having only masturbated in the traditional sense: hand, prick, lots of rubbing. For some reason he never figured that anal penetration could actually feel pleasurable, and that was fascinating.

Taking cues from the article, Sherlock applied a liberal amount of lube to his fingers and slicked them between the cleft of his arse. He then pushed his index finger inside to the first knuckle. He glanced up at the article, which recommended employing a circular swirling motion. He tried this, but was only met with tightness and a slightly uncomfortable friction. Overall, the sensation wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t particularly nice either (he would have described it as “mildly annoying.”) Perhaps he wasn’t using enough lube. He coated his hand again and slipped the finger back inside, this time while watching a pornographic video which featured two men having anal sex. Sherlock had never masturbated while watching pornography before and the video was loud and disquieting. The ordeal did not seem comfortable for either party, as both of the men were howling as though in pain. Was that how John was going to fuck him? It seemed violent. Was that what he would look like in the heat of the moment? Would that be his face slammed into the sheets, his body damn near bent in two, legs spread obscenely open with his ankles next to his ears? He slid his finger out and closed the video, shoved the laptop off his chest, and assumed his thinking pose. The clinical smell of the lubricant was distracting, as was the cold, wet feeling between his legs. He mopped himself up with the dressing gown, tossed it into the laundry.

Again he tried to think. Brain was suddenly full of static. Thought of the Julia set. Couldn’t remember the algorithm. Tried not to think anymore. Tried not to scream. Put on another nicotine patch and debated just smoking a fucking cigarette. Didn’t want to smoke without John’s permission. Took a shower and calmed down considerably. Put on slacks and a button-down; was tired of wearing pyjamas all the time, made him feel lazy; unproductive.

A few minutes later his phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen.

_Beware of exchanging one addiction for another. MH_

He was instantly furious. The message, although just seven words, spoke volumes. Of course Mycroft had been keeping tabs on him, probably been tracking his internet history, saw what he was reading, saw what he was watching, put two and two together. Figuring that Mycroft was probably going to send a car at any moment, he dialed John.

 “Hello?”

“John,” he said curtly. “Don’t oblige him. Come straight home.”

“Sorry, what? Oblige who?”

“Come. Straight. Home.” And then he hung up.

Something was stirring in him now. He put on his jacket and scarf and ran outside. John was susceptible, but he wasn’t. He checked the time. Half six. He scanned the street for any oncoming cars, didn’t see any. Scoped out the cameras which were becoming an increasing eyesore in London.

Half an hour later, a cab pulled up, and John emerged, looking completely normal and unaffected, if not a bit disheveled. Adorable.  

“Good evening, John,” Sherlock said, peering round to get a good look at the driver before he sped off. “Let’s go for a walk. You must be hungry.”

“Starving."

“Angelo’s?”

As they set off down the street, Sherlock observed that John’s gait was slightly irregular. A far cry from his psychosomatic limp, but definitely noticeable, at least to him.

“ _Ta-TAH-ta-TAH-ta-TAH_ ,” Sherlock said under his breath. It didn’t match, and he pursed his lips. “Are you nervous about something?” he asked flatly.

“I was just talking to your brother,” John said as though he’d been waiting to say it all day.

Sherlock abruptly stopped in the middle of an intersection; didn’t matter, road was empty. “ _I told you to come straight home._ ”

“I didn’t say I _saw_ him; I said I was talking to him. He called me. Right after you did, actually.”

“Yes, and?” Sherlock snapped, growing impatient. He resumed walking at a considerably quickened pace, putting a good gap between them.

“Well, he was very brief, and he asked me not to ‘entertain you.’ Said something about your ‘fragile state.’ Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“Don’t be daft, John. You understand exactly what he’s talking about.”

“Yes, but do you?”

“I actually don’t care.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

Sherlock huffed and remained silent until they were seated and picking awkwardly at their bruschetta.

“So is this your way of telling me you don’t want to have sex?” he pouted.

“Sherlock,” John said. “I take Mycroft seriously even if you don’t.”

“Because you said you would shag me today.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“And I’ll have you know that I practiced all evening,” Sherlock continued with a dramatic sigh.  He rolled his eyes. “All for nothing, I suppose.”

John looked genuinely puzzled, and he folded his arms. “You ‘practiced’?”

“Yes. I practiced sex.”

“And how did that go?” The doctor was fighting not to laugh.

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked, also folding his arms.

“The idea of you lounging around in the flat and sticking things up your bum is very funny.”

“No it isn’t. I learned a _great_ deal. And if you must know, I only used my fingers.”

“Well, that’s one way to spend an evening,” John murmured knowingly, taking a sip of wine and swallowing hard. He was probably just now realizing that Sherlock was indeed a virgin, and he was clearly piqued by this.

 “It was a disaster. I couldn’t even find my prostate.”

John snickered. “Oh, Sherlock. Is this your idea of flirting with me?”

“Yes, and it’s working,” Sherlock said, his voice a notch above a growl. “Your pupils are dilating, your orbicularis oculi is completely slackened, and I daresay you’ve gone red. Don’t blame it on the wine; you’re smiling out of nervousness, _Doctor_. You like it when I call you that. You’ve also been rubbing your hands on your jeans since we sat down, bit sweaty, are they? And every time I lick my lips you look away –” he darted out his tongue quickly, sweeping it over his teeth – “and you’ve just done it again. Did you really think you could hide your arousal from me? Oh no, John. You’ve made your intentions very _obvious_.”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Could we maybe talk about this when we get home?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Because I’m going to stuff your prick in my mouth the moment we walk in through the door.”

“All right. Fair enough.” Ten minutes later, they left.

On the walk home, Sherlock did John the courtesy of keeping their conversation strictly professional, but once they were in the foyer he pushed John against the door, pressed their lips together, and opened his mouth. Sherlock had never kissed someone like this before, and the feel of John’s mouth, warm and wet and tasting of sweet wine, was enough to get him instantly hard. Sherlock experimentally probed his tongue past the barrier of teeth and John moaned into his mouth, grabbing a handful of his curls and pushing him up against the wall. When they pulled away, John slipped a finger into Sherlock’s mouth. The finger tasted of olive oil and salt, and he sucked it obediently, occasionally flicking his tongue against the very tip of it, all the while keeping his eyes locked on John’s. He knew well enough that this was a precursor for what was to come.

When John finally withdrew his finger, Sherlock bit his lip and looked up, exposing his neck and encouraging John to sample it. John complied, loosening the scarf and yanking the jacket lapels out of the way so he could suction his lips against the pale expanse of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock tried not to moan but found this exceedingly difficult as he was now _ridiculously_ stiff in his trousers. He somehow managed to mutter “Upstairs,” before pulling away and dragging John into the flat.

Once they were inside, they wasted no time shucking off their jackets and shoes, barely remembering to turn on the lights. When they were up against the wall, John pulled Sherlock in for another kiss, and Sherlock felt John’s prick throbbing urgently against his own. A second later Sherlock fell to his knees, undoing John’s jeans and inching them down.

He’d dreamed of this moment. John’s cock. What was it like? He freed it from the confines of the pants. It was thick and smooth, gracefully leaning to the left (his right), the base of it crowned by the now familiar patch of dark hair. Sherlock pressed his cheek against it. It was warm and solid, and smelled of soap. He scrunched up his face as a clear drop of pre-ejaculate smeared the tip of his nose.

“Have you ever done this before?” John asked breathlessly.

“I’ve seen videos,” Sherlock snapped, licking his lips. “I’ve done my research.”

Sherlock then grabbed John’s cock (which was so insistent on leaning to the right that he had to aim it towards his face) and stuffed half of it into his mouth.

“Mmmh,” John moaned, neither a word nor a sound but something slurred in between as his hips involuntarily bucked up, pushing more of his length into Sherlock’s mouth. It was hard not to gag and Sherlock was forced to surface a little, so he gripped the base with his hand as he sucked on the head. This was easier, and the effect it was having on John was mesmerizing. The other man was now squirming against the wall, as though pinned there by some irresistible force. Sherlock had never seen the doctor looking quite so desperate, and he was instantly pleased with himself. He was also beginning to understand that he was fully in control of John’s pleasure even though he was the one on his knees. This was all very fascinating, not to mention incredibly arousing. He was, however, more than a little distracted by his own prick which was still painfully hard and straining against his trousers. He felt insatiable, and he reached down to give himself a cursory stroke but John swatted his hand away.

“I’ll take care of you when I’m through,” he snapped.

“ _Then hurry up_ ,” Sherlock barely had time to utter before John slipped his prick back inside. Sherlock’s cheeks were hollow as he suctioned his lips around the head, as though he could draw John’s release from him in this way, and then, as if on cue, John was moaning his name and his mouth was filling with it. Sherlock tried to swallow as much as he could. It was thick and salty, and not entirely disagreeable, but he couldn’t manage it all and pushed the very last of it out between his lips. The opaque mixture of semen and saliva dripped off his tongue and onto the collar of his shirt.

“God, Sherlock,” John sighed. “Just look at you. Covered in it.”

Sherlock was beyond words now; nearly beyond thought. This numbing of his brain was somewhat comforting, and he was grateful that it wasn’t full of static and noise like it had been the night before. He rose to his feet and pushed John against the ledge of the sofa. John pulled Sherlock’s hips forward slightly and licked his own release off of Sherlock’s mouth and chin. Sherlock moaned and instinctively wrapped his legs around John’s waist. John held him up for a split second before they fell onto the sofa; Sherlock now thrusting his hips against John’s and breathing heavily into the curve of the doctor’s neck. It was his turn now, _finally_ , and he was feeling somewhat frenzied. He tore through the buttons on John’s shirt, filled with an insatiable need to see the rest of him now – the shirt fell away – his lips instantly pressed against the scar. Up close it was beautiful; it even looked like a nerve cell. John was just starting to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, but Sherlock couldn’t wait anymore. He reached under the sofa and tossed the bottle of lube at John’s chest.

“You’re so eager,” said John, smirking.

“John. _Please_.”

John unzipped Sherlock’s trousers and pulled them down, and Sherlock kicked them off along with his pants. John then slicked his fingers and pushed them against Sherlock’s entrance, not quite in, but also not quite out.

“Just relax,” John said. “Can you do that for me?”

“Mmhm,” Sherlock groaned. John slowly pushed a finger inside; it was hot and wet and sunk in easily, and Sherlock felt his toes curling tightly in response. John’s free hand was now gripping Sherlock’s prick and working it in time to the probing of his finger. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered a little.

“Sherlock. _Relax_ ,” John said firmly.

“I’m trying,” Sherlock murmured. John’s finger melted inside him deeper before shifting suddenly and pressing up right against the tenderest spot he could possibly fathom. A spasm shot though his entire body and he clenched himself around John’s finger, mouth shamelessly agape. Why hadn’t he been able to figure this out earlier?

“ _John,”_ he sighed as John slipped a second finger inside. Sherlock gritted his teeth as his eyes rolled to the back of his skull. This definitely wasn’t going to take very long; he felt wound up like a spring.

“Oh, god,” he gasped. “It’s too much.”

“I’m surprised you’ve managed to last this long.”

“I feel like the hiss before an ice cube pops.”

“I know you’re close. You’re nearly there,” John said simply, again hooking his fingers. Sherlock almost involuntarily rolled his hips against the doctor’s hand. The sensation was absolutely insane. Everything blurred together in a glorious, almost dizzying amalgam of white-hot stimulation, and Sherlock realized that this wasn’t the first time in his life that he’d felt like this. He covered his eyes with his hands, only vaguely aware that he was growling and sighing and biting his lip and fucking himself on John’s slick fingers and _yes fuck that’s it right_ _there_ and how was it possible to feel this good?

 “Oh, that is beautiful,” John was saying, but his voice sounded far away. Sherlock trembled as the last throes of pleasure gradually waned and his vision cleared and he languidly remembered where he was, boneless and slack on the sofa. He peeled his hands away from his face, propped himself up and saw that even though John’s hand was cupped under his cock he’d still managed to come all over himself. He then collapsed back onto the cushions, totally spent, smiling hugely, laughing even. He actually felt high.

“So beautiful,” John murmured again. Sherlock’s eyes suddenly snapped open.

“Phone Lestrade,” he said, bolting upright and tossing the nearest mobile at John, which comically bounced off the man’s chest. John looked legitimately miffed. Sherlock pulled his shirt off and mopped his stomach with it before walking naked into the kitchen to check on his yeast samples.

“Phone him now. I know what happened to the ambassador’s missing tie-clip.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a great debate (canonically and otherwise) about whether Sherlock attended Oxford or Cambridge. Historically, Cambridge appealed to scientists and mathematicians, while Oxford was a haven for artists and writers. Hence why I believe he would have gone to Cambridge. 
> 
> “I feel like the hiss before an ice cube pops.” isn't my line. My best friend used it to describe a feeling of impending panic, and I thought it fit well in this fic. I think it sounds like something Sherlock might say.
> 
> Also, PHEW! This chapter was so very taxing. A thousand thanks to everyone who reads, comments, and leaves kudos. Hope you are all having a wonderful holiday. <3


	4. The Noetic Quality of Mystical Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock overthinks everything and later suspects that his sentiment is not unrequited.

After they phoned Lestrade and made arrangements to visit Scotland Yard in the morning, John suggested that Sherlock get some sleep. Sherlock waved him off. He didn’t want to sleep, didn’t need to sleep ever again, not now, not when his brain was finally working properly after a week of intermittent static and noise. (Besides, he’d only been awake for two days, a far cry from his record which had been two weeks. The end of those two weeks, which he could strangely barely remember, had resulted in his expulsion from school. Tedious.) Regardless of this, something fundamental _had_ changed, and Sherlock no longer felt encumbered by his own body, but rather like his true self: a disembodied brain, a transparent eyeball, something superhuman which surpassed the corporeal entirely. How tremendous it felt to transcend the flesh, and to achieve this without the aid of pesky powders and needles. It took some extended digging in the memory banks of the mind palace but he eventually recalled the phrase which tidily explained everything: _the noetic quality of mystical experience_. He’d read a book about it ten years ago but it hadn’t made sense until now. The noetic quality, simply stated, referred to the sensation of “losing oneself,” being moved to a point of mindless euphoria by some unimaginable, intangible force – something which felt mystical. Of course, none of it was mystical (that would be nonsense), as this particular feeling could be evoked via a number of perfectly ordinary activities: musical exploits, physical combat, overzealous religious worship, copious drug usage, and – sex. _Of course_. It explained everything.

While John went through his nightly routine, which mostly involved drinking tea and updating his blog, Sherlock spent a good hour in the mind palace simply replaying the events of the night. Particularly, he wanted to further analyze the exact moment in which he’d “lost himself,” which had been the height of his pleasure, his orgasm, which had easily been the best orgasm of his life. What a curious entity that was, his little death. It _was_ like death: a complete surrender to the inevitable, and in his case, the unknown. The whole experience had been alien to him; never before had he come so hard that he’d forgotten about his body. In the past he’d actually regarded the sensation of the orgasm with the same indifference one would have towards scratching an itch: it was simply a quick and painless solution to an annoying bodily ailment. He didn’t even enjoy masturbating, not really, it was just something he _had to do_ sometimes, like yawning or sneezing or going to the loo. He never really cared much for the sensation of ejaculating precisely _because_ it made him so nauseatingly aware of his body, and even worse, his own physical needs. He had always thought it was disgusting to have a body, and all the more repulsive having to succumb to the needs of the transport. Not anymore. It had to be John, of all people. It always had been John, hadn’t it? The doctor was always urging him to take better care of himself: _eat something, stop smoking, take it easy_ , _relax_. It was John’s touch; his fingers, his patience, his warmth – these elements had fixed Sherlock in one breathless moment an hour ago on the sofa.

He glanced into the microscope again (there had been a slight observable change but nothing worth recording) but no matter, he’d been secretly watching John, who was now yawning and shutting his laptop. What an attentive flatmate his John was, he even wiped off the sofa and carried the sullied clothes to the laundry. He then brought over a clean set of pyjamas, insisting that Sherlock at least put some clothes on if he was so hell-bent on staying up all night.  

“Of course I’m going to be up all night,” Sherlock said simply as he reluctantly dressed himself. “I see you’ve neglected to bring me a pair of pants.”

John frowned and folded his arms. “You should really get some sleep.”

“You already said that, John.”

“Yes, and I’m saying it again. Go to sleep.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t it make you tired?”

“Doesn’t what make me tired?”

John gestured to the sofa with an ambiguous wave. “ _You know._ What we did.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at that heinous phrase before glancing at the sofa and then back at John.

“No.”

“Well I’m going to bed.” John huffed and started to walk off. Was he insulted? Why?

“John.” Sherlock hopped off the stool – the yeast could wait, he wasn’t even paying attention anymore. He caught up just as the doctor was at the foot of the stairs.

“You should be happy. This is the best I’ve felt all week.”

“I’m sure it is,” John snapped. “ _Because you’ve solved a case_.”

“No,” Sherlock said bluntly, his adrenaline levels climbing because he finally understood how to describe how he felt for once–   

“It’s not just the case. The case is _secondary_ , and I wouldn’t have solved it if you hadn’t brought me to climax. It’s to do with something called the noetic quality of mysticism. William James wrote extensively about it. It’s a manifestation of true duality, reminiscent of an out-of-body experience and just now, when you –”

John yawned and rolled his eyes. “ _Right_. I’ve no idea what you’re going off about. Good night.”

Sherlock watched as John stomped off to his room and swiftly shut the door. He didn’t slam the door but that meant nothing – it was well past midnight and Mrs. Hudson was notoriously sensitive to any sudden noises which might constitute a “little domestic.” Was John legitimately cross with him, and if so, why? Did he feel sexually inadequate because his efforts had enlivened Sherlock rather than leave him comatose on the sofa? What utter nonsense that was, Sherlock thought bitterly, but he felt so good that the bitter sentiment resided almost as quickly as it arose. He pondered a bit more. If John was legitimately cross with him then he’d probably lose interest, might go back to carousing in pubs, go back to sleeping with _women_ – no, that wasn’t about to happen, not when Sherlock had the potential to feel this good all the time. Perhaps he was overthinking things. (John always accused him of overthinking things). Perhaps the man really was just knackered. If that was the matter, it was better to just let him sleep it off. Sherlock turned his attention back to the case.

In the following eight hours he might have blinked half a dozen times, grinning to himself in the dark because it was easy, everything was so easy. He had no idea why this was so exciting, it was by far the dullest case he’d ever solved, although it had taken a good long time to get to the meat of it – because the ambassador’s tie clip wasn’t a tie-clip at all, and now it was embedded in the stomach of a dead cat. Running through the details of the events kept him content and occupied for the remainder of the night, and before he knew it the sitting room was filling with the cloudy grey light of a London sunrise. Sometime later John left his room and went for a shower without even saying good morning.

At this, Sherlock leapt off the couch and boiled the kettle, even going so far as to make toast. Everything was timed perfectly with John’s emergence from the bath. He was dressed in a pinstriped button down and chinos and was looking so adorable with his hair wet and messed that Sherlock couldn’t resist waving him into the kitchen with a bright “Good morning!”

 “What’s all this?” John asked as he lazily entered the room. “What do you want? Explain yourself.”

Sherlock folded his arms. “I’m not allowed to make breakfast?”

“Just tell me what you want.”

“You know exactly what I want. Don’t you?”

John sighed and laughed (not a genuine laugh) before picking up his cup and a piece of toast. “You don’t have to wine and dine me. But thanks, I suppose.”

Sherlock sharply looked up. “You’re still cross with me. Why?”

“I’m not _cross_ with you,” John mumbled through a mouthful of toast. “Although I am starting to wonder if _this_ –” he paused to gesture ambiguously between them – “is the brightest idea.”

“Why?”

 “Don’t you understand that sex is complicated, and that it complicates _things_ , and – wait, no, no, of course you wouldn’t understand.” John shook his head and let out another fake laugh.

Sherlock scowled. “This is Mycroft’s doing, isn’t it.”

John busied himself with his breakfast.

“ _Isn’t it.”_

“I didn’t say that.”

“Forget what he told you! It’s rubbish. I am fine. Better than fine, actually.”

 “And that’s the problem.” John turned away as he deposited his cup and saucer into the sink.

Sherlock was almost instantly furious, but something enticed him to swallow his anger. As angry as he was with Mycroft for attempting to turn John against the idea of sex, he understood fundamentally that it would benefit everyone if he didn’t entertain his brother’s paranoia any further. It would be best to just voice what he had been thinking about all night, to just say it plainly. He turned his focus back to John, who was standing with his back turned, cradling his brow with the thumb and index finger of his (dominant) left hand, a gesture of frustration. Sherlock snuck up behind John and embraced him from behind, and before the doctor could protest, he purred in his ear:

 “Last night was amazing. You know it was; you thought it was beautiful. Don’t you understand? I’ve never come so hard in my life. I thought I was never going to stop. When it was over all that rubbish and rot had been scrubbed clean out of my head. You’ve changed me, _Doctor Watson_ , you’ve fixed me, and I need you to go on fixing me.”

“Is that right?” John’s voice was breathy; barely there, and Sherlock could practically _hear_ the blush tinting his cheeks.

 “Yes.” Sherlock trailed the tip of his nose along the curve of John’s neck, sighing against the hot flesh which awaited him there.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Don’t fight me, John. You know it’s useless.” He resisted the urge to take the doctor’s pulse, so blatant was the throbbing of the jugular against his lips.

“I’m not _fighting_ you.” John swallowed hard. “But we’re going to be late.”

 Sherlock leaned in a bit closer to murmur against the man’s throat:

“Irrelevant.”

“You’re still in your pyjamas.”

“Your fingers were _lovely_ , John, but I’m in need of a proper shag now. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I suppose you are.” John said with a nod, matter-of-factly. Sherlock snaked his hand down to the man’s cock and fondled it through the trousers. Of course it was hard. John sighed through gritted teeth, which resulted in a frustrated hiss. Sherlock kissed his temple and continued to rub him, not enough to work him up, just enough to keep him hard. Best to keep him frustrated, best to leave him in want; might better the impending results.

“Will you fuck me tonight?”

“Say please.” John’s entire body seemed to have gone stiff with the effort of resisting.

“Please.”

“I’ll see if I can work it into my schedule.” John rocked his hips forward a bit and pushed his sheathed cock harder into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock nuzzled his lips further down into the dip of the clavicle.

“Please, please, please,” he said between kisses. “Please fuck me tonight.”

John turned around suddenly and Sherlock swallowed a moan as the man’s blatant erection prodded him. He fought back the blush which he knew was tinting his cheeks, and before he knew it John was pulling him into a hot wet kiss. Sherlock was a bit breathless as they parted.

“Mmm, thank you, Doctor. I look forward to it.”

***

The resulting trip to Scotland Yard was like a whirlwind.

“Shut up. Stop talking and _think_!” Sherlock snapped as he barged into Lestrade’s office with a stack of newspaper clippings and assorted files. “It’s _obvious_. The ambassador is obsessed with cats, especially this one, the Calico – took it everywhere – or he did when it was alive. Now, he has two daughters, if you recall, and the older one is allergic to cats.”

Lestrade quickly removed his feet from the top of his desk. “Hang on. How d’you know she’s allergic?”

Sherlock flung down the stack of clippings. “Look at the pictures. She’s never within arm’s length of the thing, and even then she’s fighting not to sneeze. Look at the tension in her zygomatic—”

“Never thought you’d get so animated over a bloody _tie clip_ ,” laughed the Inspector as he took a lazy sip of coffee. He turned to Donovan, who was stifling a giggle.

“You’d think he’d just come back from investigating a double murder-suicide!”

“Shut up!” Sherlock shouted. “It _was_ a murder!”

Another round of giggles. “ _Cat_ _murder_. What do they even pay us for?”

“She poisoned the cat,” Sherlock continued. “Coaxed it to swallow the tie clip – which isn’t a tie clip at all – _it’s a key_ – no, not a key for a door you _idiots_ – not you, John – It’s a key to a private hard drive.”

“Intel suggests otherwise,” yawned Lestrade.

“Well ‘intel’ is wrong! She’s allergic to cats and yet the thing is going to be buried in her back garden. She’s even organized funeral arrangements for it this Saturday.”

“What on Earth has gotten into you?” Lestrade laughed, again gesturing to Donovan. “He’s chuffed; look at him!”

Sherlock ignored them. “I’ll retrieve the key myself. Get me the body.”

“I suppose we could intercept it,” Lestrade said, surveying Sherlock now for some reason. Sherlock stared right back. So many things he could say. _That isn’t your suit; it was clearly tailored for someone else, probably an old mate from Uni, quite poorly I might add. You’re staying in his flat. You’re wearing it because all of the decent ones are with your wife. Soon to be ex-wife._

“No idea why you’re so keen to carve up a _cat_ ,” Lestrade added smartly. “You’re practically tenting in your trousers.”

“Don’t start, _Greg_ ,” Sherlock spat, directly locking eyes with the inspector for the first time since walking in. “You’ve been without a shave for nearly a week now, judging from the abject lack of moisturizer round your mouth – you only moisturize after you shave, after all – and you haven’t been shaving because there’s been a change in the rate of the hair growth, or rather, your own hormonal patterns ever since you’ve been kicked out, even though she was the one orchestrating the affair – after all a man’s beard will come in a bit quicker if he’s anticipating sex…which you aren’t. Not for a while. Not for _weeks_. Shall I go on?”

Donovan smirked under her hand. Lestrade sighed and gestured with his pen.

“Mind your manners or you’re off the case.”

Sherlock’s brain was starting to fog up and so he glared at John, who simply cleared his throat and said “All right, are we quite finished here? Yes?”

            ***

            Sherlock let John lead him out of the complex by means of a hand clasped around his elbow. Suddenly his head was killing him. Everything about working with those idiots repulsed him, but their ridicule (which had always been blatant) had never really bothered him until now. He’d solved that one with virtually no evidence, and in record time as well – what on earth was so amusing about that? The throbbing behind his eyes intensified, and he absently rubbed his temples.

“Are you all right?” John asked. The sound of John’s voice, so warm and familiar, cleared the fog away for a moment.

“Of course I’m all right.”

“Don’t mind them, Sherlock,” John sighed. “You’re brilliant and they’re jealous.” He then hooked their arms together. That was new. It was practically an embrace. They’d never _embraced_ before; not like this, never casually. Even their half-hug over the kitchen sink had involved lustful intent. Not this. Did it? How could it? They were standing on the pavement, fully dressed, in spitting distance of Scotland Yard. Sherlock tried not to smile. This proved difficult.

Not to mention that John had seen right through him, and had said just the thing he wanted to hear. _You’re brilliant and they’re jealous_. A simple truth, one he’d always known, but hearing John say it (for perhaps the fortieth time) was instantly reassuring. Perhaps the linked arms had something to do with it.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said quickly, forcing his face back into the usual saturnine expression.

            The cab ride home was quiet. Sherlock observed that John was sitting unusually close to him, so close that their knees were touching even though he’d crossed his legs. Again, that was new. Tentatively, Sherlock slid a hand onto the small expanse of leather between them, and before he knew it, his hand was being cradled in John’s. He sharply looked down, and then at the doctor, who was absently gazing out the window, probably not even paying attention to the fact that they were now technically _holding hands._ Something about this made him feel uneasy. Until now, he’d only worried about analyzing the sexual aspect of their relationship, and tried to match John in his indifference. But all of the day’s events, and even those from the night before, suggested that perhaps the doctor was not so passive after all. This was somewhat worrying.

Sherlock realized, in that instant, that there was a twinge of sentiment lingering between their knees, which were just barely touching now. This was frightening. Sex was one thing, but _sentiment_ – or even the idea of sentiment – was quite another. _But you already fancy him,_ his brain nagged. _You’re sentimental already._ Well, yes, he did fancy John, but he had never expected that the man would ever return the affection. For some reason he felt his chest tightening, as though it were caving in. Everything was blurring together again, the high was wearing off – there was simply too much to process, and there was no evidence from past experience, nothing for him to cross-reference, nothing to analyze. In a panic he thought swiftly of John’s fingers warm and wet and melting inside him, and the way his cock leaned to the left (his right) – and the mouth which tasted of wine, and the sweet smell of the skin and the hair and the jumpers and the scar and the scar and the scar and the tea – _earl grey, decaffeinated, two sugars_ – and the way that everything about the man was positively steeped in the essence of home. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Blocking out the visual cues sometimes helped settle his brain but it wasn’t helping now. He vaguely heard John ask him if he was all right but he couldn’t answer because none of this was making sense anymore and _no I’m not all right_ —

“Sherlock,” John said urgently, tugging on his hand. “Come on, we’re here now.”

Sherlock snatched his hand away. “ _I know we are.”_

Once they were in the foyer, John grabbed him by the shoulder and asked “What’s the matter? And don’t say you’re fine.”

Sherlock’s head was still buzzing. Best to just confess. “All right. I’m not fine.” He leaned against the wall, covered his face with his hands, once again he felt impossibly wound up, and as always, he lacked the ability to properly express the muddled mess in his brain.

He heard John’s voice wafting beside him: “Sherlock. Just tell me what you need.”

“I need you to be indifferent. I need you to stop this – stop _caring_.”

There was a sound of ruffling; John had folded his arms. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Sherlock uncovered his face, studied his hands, and was amazed to find that there was a streak of wetness on his left palm. When had _that_ happened?

“Go back to just wanting a shag. Don’t bloody hold my hand.”

“Sherlock, I’ve always cared. You know that. Even before we started this…thing. Jesus, are you _crying_?”

“No, you _idiot_ ,” Sherlock snapped, opening his eyes wide and staring right at John to indicate that they were, in fact, bone dry. At that moment, John grabbed him by the ears and kissed him hard on the mouth. No tongues, no fondling. Sherlock tried to tense up but it really was useless. The kiss was everything he’d wanted all over again, warmth, familiarity, the essence of John.

“Relax,” John said quietly in Sherlock’s ear after they pulled away. He looked down, and John kissed him on the forehead.

“All right?”

“Forgive me,” Sherlock said. “I've never done this before. It’s quite…unnerving. The feelings.”

“I understand,” John said with a nervous grin. “Don’t worry, all right? I’ll take care of you. Haven’t I always?”

“Yes.”

“Because _I know you._ Better than anyone. Sometimes better than you know yourself.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why I care, all right?”

Sherlock pulled John in close again, leaned down to kiss and nuzzle his neck, all while squeezing him tight.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” John said suddenly. “We don’t _have_ to.”

Sherlock’s eyes flared. Of course they had to. How else would he ever feel normal again?

“You’re out of condoms,” he said bluntly.

John’s eyes narrowed, and he studied the ceiling, clearly confused. “Am I?”

“Mmhm,” murmured Sherlock against the man’s supple neck. “Might want to pick up some lube as well.”

“All right, I’ll get some, and then I’ll take care of you.” John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s again, and Sherlock observed that it was the first time they’d ever kissed while _smiling_. Once John had left, Sherlock leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, raking his hands through his messed hair. This was it. He found himself feeling a bit more lucid and elated, if not still a bit frazzled. As he hovered behind the door to the flat, however, he detected the distinct smell of _shag tobacco_ , which stopped him dead in his tracks. In an unabashed Pavlovian response he even started salivating, and he swallowed as he flung the door open.

“Afternoon, Sherlock _._ I knew you wouldn’t mind,” Mycroft said quietly, even daring to smile a little. He was perched on the sofa, dressed in the usual foppish Victorian three-piece suit, and this one was pinstriped. He took a long drag from a Kretek which was long and black and _decadent_ , and then exhaled a long and thick stream of sweet smoke. Sherlock’s heart was hammering in his chest; his fists clenching of their own accord. He tried to ignore the involuntary response but obviously he couldn’t, not when his stupid brother was right _there_ , lounging on the sofa with a bloody Djarum between his fingers. 

“You don’t smoke,” he choked out.

“Would you like one?” Mycroft asked, withdrawing a silver case from his jacket.

“I don’t recall giving you a key to my flat.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, motioning to the seat which was directly across from the sofa; John’s chair, upholstered in plaid. “I don’t need a _key_ to get into your flat. And please, have one.” He gestured with the case.

“I had them airlifted in just for the occasion. Sit down.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, shutting his eyes as the smell of the cigarette wafted all around him; he inhaled sharply, analyzing the ingredients. _Fine cut. Nutmeg. Cumin. Fiberglass. Toxins. Too much nicotine to be legal. Sweet twang of Indonesian blend tobacco, high-grade, full of resin. Full of tar._ His mouth was blatantly watering now.

“Sit down,” Mycroft said again, gently, as he sucked on the cigarette. Sherlock indignantly threw himself down on the chair across from the sofa, pursing his lips. The case was offered. Sherlock removed a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. His brother struck a match and lit him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUGH!! I am so sorry that took so long. I had to re-write it several times and changed quite a few things last minute. I do hope you can forgive the plentiful lack of smut in this chapter...the feels snuck up on me last minute. 
> 
> Anyway, a hundred thousand thanks to everyone who read, commented, left kudos, read half of the thing and then got bored and gave up, sent good vibes...just thank you, I'm beyond flattered that anyone is reading my work let alone enjoying it. Thank you. 
> 
> Happy New Year, Happy Birthday to J.R.R. Tolkien, and Happy (upcoming) Birthday to our favorite consulting detective.


	5. The Necessary Precautions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft shares more than a cigarette with his little brother.

The first inhale is always perfect; _robust_. It hits him instantly, snaps him to attention. The swift kick of the nicotine. The languid stretch as his lungs fill with smoke. If he hadn’t known any better he would have said it was better than sex. Exhale. The smoke is sweet and thick, and it flows from his nose and mouth in milky white tendrils. The effect is so needed and so damn calming that he almost forgets where he is. Where is he? Sitting. In the sitting-room, naturally. Staring straight into the pale eyes of his arch-enemy.

They smoked in silence for two full minutes, sharing a tiny crystalline ashtray which they passed back and forth. Sherlock savoured every drag, not exactly desiring to ask for a second cigarette, although he knew full well that one wouldn’t be enough. One was never enough. He took a shallow inhale, swirling the smoke in his cheeks, billowing the stream directly from his mouth into his nostrils, and exhaling through his mouth again. A perfect Irish waterfall.

“Feel better?” Mycroft asked. As with all of his inquiries it sounded like a statement.

“I would have preferred unfiltered.” Sherlock studied the base of the filter, which was almost completely blackened, as he was down to the last hit. There was almost no point in finishing; it would probably taste like hot air. He crushed the obsolete thing on the ashtray and it went out with a tiny flurry of sparks. He looked at Mycroft, who was lazily puffing on his cigarette, clearly not really enjoying it. Sherlock wondered what it would take to get him to leave.

“If I were you, I would be mindful of where I was sitting,” he ventured.

“I took the necessary precautions.”

Mycroft smiled and crossed his legs, which caused his trousers to flood up round his ankle. Sherlock studied the ankle. It was long, thin, and sheathed in a woolen sleeve of burgundy. He suddenly felt too hot, and shrugged off his jacket and scarf.

“Have another.” The case was again offered.

“Why are you wearing sock-garters?” Sherlock’s fingers were curling, his head was swimming, and he still felt too hot. If anyone else had been sitting across from him, they would never have suspected anything was awry. Mycroft, however, was blatantly smirking.

“The great detective,” he said softly, leaning forward to snuff out his half-smoked cigarette. “Look at you now.”

“There is nothing wrong with me.”

“Is that so, Sherlock? Then why are you shaking?”

Of course his traitorous body revealed everything. The disturbance was slight, but there was a definite tremor knotting the tendons in his left hand. He would sometimes practice violin with extra vibrato to remedy this. Now he could do nothing. Mycroft kept staring at him, watching him as he watched the whole of Britain, behind a one-way mirror, perfectly content with the sterile, insusceptible nature of surveillance. How Sherlock resented this. Even when he looked away, he still felt as though he were pinned to his seat by the intensity of his brother’s gaze.

“You do realize why, don’t you?”

Sherlock looked over his brother, hunting for something to analyze, to deduce, to reveal – but there was nothing. The suit was standard, fitting him better because he’d actually managed to _lose_ some weight – the pocket chain was the same one he’d been wearing for the last four years – white gold, gift from the prime minister – his hair was slicked with the same product – some floral pomade concocted in the south of France – there was _nothing_ – nothing!

“You’re still chasing it, Sherlock. The rush.”

Everything was closing in on him now; John’s kiss was still lingering on his lips – he knew John would be displeased to find that they tasted of smoke now, that there was smoke all over his insides now – not to mention the whole flat would reek for days. He jumped out of the chair and threw his coat over his shoulders. If Mycroft was so keen on staying, then he would just have to leave.

Of course his brother was a step ahead. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Sherlock spat.

“Out where? To a _friend’s_?”

Sherlock stopped, electing to keep his coat on, and he whipped across the room to prop the windows open. Might as well try to funnel out the smell. Mycroft uncrossed his legs and reclined a bit with his fingers laced in his lap. A gesture of confidence.

“I’ve made you anxious. My apologies. Are you quite sure you won’t have another?”

Sherlock would have loved another, but that was too easy, and he’d already ruined his nerve by having the first. He picked up his bow and the small brick of rosin which he kept on his music stand, and set about vigorously polishing the horsehair.

“I suppose I shall be succinct then,” said Mycroft. “You see, Sherlock, the truth is, you’re quite predictable. And I know all about your old habits. No, I don’t mean _that_. Heavens, did you think me so obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I’m referring to your, shall we say, _vicarious_ sensibility.”

Sherlock loudly plucked through an arpeggio in D major before propping the instrument under his chin and positioning the bow. What to play? Mycroft famously hated Baroque music. Vivaldi was a fan of D major. Best to serenade him with some Vivaldi, then.

 “Sherlock,” Mycroft continued. There was the click of the cigarette case and the rustling sound of a match being struck. The bow tripped as the first lick of fresh smoke filled the air.

“Did you really think it was healthy, chasing after killers the way you once chased your vices? You may be technically clean, but we both know that you are far from well. You feed on the vices of others now. It consumes you. I see you haven’t slept for two days. You’re _obsessive_ , Sherlock. We both know it. How can you deny your nature? At the core of your being you are, and always will be, an addict.”

Sherlock barreled through the gavotte in the second movement, butchering the music. The smell of the smoke was overwhelming. It stung his eyes and made his throat clench. His lips were even involuntarily pursing around an imaginary cigarette. None of this was fair. He wanted to stop playing. He was so uncomfortable. So _hot_. He couldn’t even get a good hold on the violin, not while wearing his coat. His hands were sweaty and clumsy, and a spool of pale hairs had sprung loose from the bow.

“And now you’ve gone and discovered _sex_ , of all things. I have to say I’m surprised. Even I didn’t think it would take you this long.”

He heard it then. The canting on the stairs. The sound of John. The sound of his protector. _Ta-TAH-ta-TAH-ta-TAH-ta-TAH-ta-TAH._ A moment later, the door swung open and there he was, there was John, come to rescue him from this tyranny, this nightmare.

And yet, as John stood stupefied in the doorframe, he could hardly imagine how ridiculous the scene must have looked – with Mycroft lounging on the sofa, the air thick with smoke, and Sherlock holed up in the corner, sweating profusely, sawing through a horrific minuet. He hurriedly put the violin back in its case. He then observed that there was a little paper bag scrunched in John’s hand. So he’d really done it, then. He’d gone and purchased the contraband that would crucify them both.

“What the hell is this?” John asked. He didn’t sound angry, but that was just like him; he never sounded as angry as he really was.

“Good evening, John.” Mycroft politely snuffed out his cigarette. “I’ll only be another minute. Do sit down.”

John didn’t budge. “Sherlock,” he said quickly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock lied. He took off his coat again, draped it over his chair, and sat down. His shirt was clinging to him in the worst way. Everything felt too tight, damp with sweat. He suddenly felt exhausted.

“What’s in the bag, John?” Mycroft ventured softly. “Need I even ask?”

“I’ve nothing to hide.” John strode across the room and extended the bag to Mycroft, who took it between his fingertips and peeked inside. In that moment, Sherlock could not have possibly admired a person more than he admired John. Mycroft frowned in disgust and placed the offending bag delicately on the coffee table.

“John,” he said, rising to his feet and smoothing out his waistcoat. “The thing you are proposing will bring nothing but harm.”

“Then that’s my business.”

“Look what you’ve done to him.” Sherlock looked up, only half listening.

“What have I done to him?”

Mycroft sounded legitimately firm now. “You’ve _ruined_ him.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said quickly, jumping up and shaking the fatigue out of his brain. The way he felt as this point was beyond description. Everything was upside down anyway, and there was no more use in fighting it.

“You’re exactly right. He’s ruined me and I should like him to go on ruining me.”

Mycroft turned back to John with a slight jump. “John. _He had a cigarette_.”

John’s confident demeanor slackened slightly, and his mouth tightened in genuine concern. He sharply directed his gaze towards Sherlock.

“It’s true,” Sherlock yawned. “I wish I’d had two.” Idle lies. If it were up to him he would have smoked ten.

“All right,” said John. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“You should have heeded my warning, John.”

“I’ve had enough of this, and I’ve had enough of you.”

“Have you?” Mycroft droned.

“Yes. Now _get out_.”

“Well, yes, I _was_ just leaving.” Mycroft lazily collected his coat and umbrella, cleaned out the crystalline ashtray with his handkerchief, and deposited the thing in his pocket.

“One last thing, Doctor Watson, and perhaps you had better listen well this time. Tonight will be a danger night.” Sherlock smirked at this, though he felt anything but smug. Hadn’t Mycroft realized by now that practically every night was a ‘danger night’ for him?

“Yes, yes, that’s very interesting,” John said quickly, and Sherlock was amazed that the man sounded positively _bored_. What a perfect specimen his John was, so valiant, so immoveable.

Once Mycroft had departed (they made sure that he’d actually left in a car, and that the car was clear down the road) Sherlock sunk back down onto the sofa. His knees felt gelatinous, the cigarette had left a bad taste in his mouth. He felt weak. Even hungry. He soon felt John’s warm fingers gently lifting his chin, and he looked up through languid half-closed eyes.

“Sherlock,” John said. “Are you all right?”

What to say? Best not to lie. He was quickly finding that he couldn’t lie to John anymore. This was worrying, but he couldn’t worry about it. Not now.

“I’m tired.” He didn’t know how to express his gratitude. He didn’t know anything anymore. “I regret having the cigarette.”

“Never mind that, you’ve had a day and a half. Go and have a lie down.”

“John.” Doubt. A feeling of doubt. Nagging him down, irresistible, like gravity. His mouth was so dry; the tar had made it sticky.

“Is something wrong with me?”

“No, Sherlock. Up you get.” He was on his feet now. He was in his room now. Shoes off. Trousers off. The next thing he knew he was in his underwear and a t-shirt, smothered under the bedclothes, feeling heavy, sinking into the mattress like a hot stone.

Eyes heavy. Body heavy. John kissed the crown of his head. He closed his eyes and almost instantly fell asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, I have no idea how this happened. This hurt me to write. I am so sorry! ;A; 
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone who read, commented, and left kudos. Your feedback is greatly appreciated and greatly encouraging. 
> 
> The next chapter will most likely be the last.


	6. Afterglow of a Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How can you deny your nature?"

It did occur to him. That his brother was right. The nagging feeling arose as Sherlock surfaced into wakefulness. The room was dark; he was drenched in sweat. Not feverish. Anxious. Anxiety, an old friend, another arch-enemy perhaps, one which only visited him in the afterglow of a relapse. And this was a relapse, was it not? He shifted uncomfortably under the bedclothes, peeled the shirt off, and raked his fingers through his damp hair. His mouth felt unbearably sticky; the residue of the cigarette was bitter but fresh on his tongue, driving him mad. Mycroft was right; he was an addict. Of course he realized this, realized it three days prior in fact when his doctor first pressed that perfect mouth between his scapulae. The spot on his upper spine tingled; retrograde nostalgia. He gingerly swung his legs round and stood up. He felt drunk; heavy and stiff. His body was screaming for attention; he was terribly hungry and thirsty, and definitely in need of a bath. Blinking the gauze of sleep from his eyes he dragged his feet out of the room and lumbered, zombie-like, into the kitchen.

The lights were on. They hurt his eyes. As he clicked on the kettle and stuffed a scone into his mouth it took less than a second to realize that John wasn’t home. It was the position of the chairs, not to mention the ominous quiet in the flat. On the nights that Sherlock did sleep, he was roused by the gentle hiss of the kettle, the murmur of the telly (Channel 4, always), and John’s little noises of amusement regarding whatever he was blogging about or watching. These things were the essence of his doctor; the smell of tea, sometimes coffee, and always toast. The uneven gait. The occasional stray blond hair which would find its way onto the bathroom mirror or the collar of John’s shirt. They were little parabolas spun from gold, strewn all over the flat. He always spotted them.

None of these niceties were present now. The lighting in the kitchen was too harsh and fluorescent compared to the dull mist swirling outside. The kettle bubbled and hissed, and it even sounded sinister; mechanical. Reminded him of life before John. Life before sex. What was before his doctor; before the warmth of those lips and hands? Withdrawal, mostly. Lots of shaking; agitation. Cold sweat. Nauseating awareness of the flesh. And before that, needles; lots of needles. Sometimes crystalline powder. Teeth bloodied as he rubbed the stuff into his gums. The tickle at the back of his throat. Relentless anxiety; the good kind of anxiety – _adrenaline_ , the euphoric swell of the brain as the mind’s eye expanded exponentially.

The cigarette smell was amplified in the sitting room. It clung to the sofa, the drapes, his tongue. He poured a cup of tea, gulped it down even though it was too hot. Mouth on fire. Body still heavy. Brain sluggish; half-asleep, couldn’t really figure where John had gone – narrowed it down to either Tesco or Sainsbury’s – they still needed biscuits – could usually figure out where John was with 99% accuracy. Not now. Not today. Still thirsty. Drank a glass of water. Still sweaty and sticky all over. Peeled off nicotine patches. Went for a shower. Crushing frustration quickly turned to anger. Mycroft had been right. _How can you deny your nature?_

He thought of John. Of course he thought of John. The shower was overhot as usual, small room filling with puffs of wet vapor, triggering the memory of the first time he’d been touched only three nights ago. Three nights ago. It seemed like an eternity. Another strange side effect of this new drug. Sherlock was usually meticulous when it came to dates and times – and yet now he couldn’t even remember what day it was. He knew it couldn’t be Saturday because Lestrade and company hadn’t intercepted the dead cat. He also knew it couldn’t be Friday because John went to work on Fridays and John wasn’t at work because his leather oxfords were propped up behind the front door. So it was Thursday. Thursday. He said the word a few times, gagged on it; it spilled from his mouth like bile. The nuances of language had always eluded him; sometimes words put a weird taste in his mouth. A bad taste in his mouth. Not _John_. He said the doctor’s name a few times, liked the way it forced his jaw open with his lips slightly puckered. It didn’t put a weird taste in his mouth. He liked the way John tasted; soapy, sweet, salty. Wanted to taste him again. _At the core of your being you are, and always will be, an addict._

This new drug. John. What was it about John? He pondered this as he stood naked in front of the sink, violently brushing his teeth, scrubbing the tar out of his mouth. The mouth. John’s mouth. Not only the mouth. The resolve; the genuine tenderness. Where did it arise from? It was loathsome to admit, but he sometimes found John hard to read. He already knew why this was – it was because John’s gestures were rooted in pain. Steeped in it actually. They had never talked about the war; not really. Nor about the injury. The scar was beautiful in its disfigurement; much larger than Sherlock had anticipated. How peculiar to remember that the scar was the ghost of John’s brush with death, to remember that John had experienced death firsthand; knew death intimately like an old friend. Sherlock liked to believe that he also shared this relationship with death, after all, he prodded and poked the dead all the time, often got covered in viscera and blood; came home bathed in the stench of it. Well yes, but that wasn’t anything like John's experience. John had _lived_ it, waded knee-deep in it. Sherlock prodded the dead on a cold slab in the mortuary which was quiet and pristine; sterile. This was not how John had encountered death. Death had gripped him round the gullet and rattled him so much that he’d even confessed to praying. _Please, God, let me live._ Sherlock didn’t think he could ever be reduced to prayer. He fancied himself immoveable, like John, except John was not immoveable. The draft of death had moved him.

And yesterday, as John extended the bag to Mycroft, as he led Sherlock to bed – these actions were but vestiges of the battlefield. John had taken the fall for him. The proverbial bullet. Mycroft could have them followed. Probably had the flat bugged. This didn’t frighten Sherlock but it did nothing to quell the impending panic which would surely grip him if John didn’t come home soon. He rinsed his mouth, splashed some water on his face, wandered around the flat naked for seven minutes. Things were still hurting. His brain still wasn’t working. A strange electricity was tickling his sinuses. He knew where the cigarettes were. The low tar Silk Cuts. If he smoked one, _and he really did want to smoke one_ , it would only aggravate his craving further. Danger night. He hunted for them. Vaguely remembered that he was naked and threw on some clothes – nice clothes, not pyjamas – should he put on a nicotine patch? The fever was gripping him now. The chest was caving in. He checked on the yeast samples – there was an interesting reaction but _he actually didn’t care **.**_ Danger night? Danger night! He flung himself down onto the sofa, gripped fistfuls of his hair. John or a smoke. John or a smoke. Brain full of static and noise, hands shaking – withdrawal. Mycroft was right.

“Stop this,” he said. “ _Stop this right now._ ”

Swallowed hard. Checked the time. Half four. _Half four_? Then why on earth was it so dark? Noise on the stairs. Kitten heels. Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock,” she called. Her voice was a welcome distraction. A moment later the door swung open. “What’s that smell? Have you been bloody smoking in here?”

Sherlock remained sprawled on the couch and lazily turned to look at her. She was wearing a new jacket, a deep purple pea coat dappled with flecks of rain. It looked nice.

“No.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Her voice dropped into the dreaded lower register of _concern_. “Are you –”

“ _No_ , Mrs. Hudson,” he snapped and quickly added “please don’t go sniffing about, I can assure you there is nothing of interest to be found.”

He observed that she was blatantly staring at the crumpled brown bag which was still sitting on the coffee table.

“If you insist,” he shrugged, picking up the bag and extending it in her direction. 

“Oh, my. _Prophylactics_! ”

Sherlock yawned, predicting her speedy exit. “It’s for an experiment.”

“Of course it is, dearie.” She dropped the bag on the coffee table and shuffled back over to the door, flashing a crinkled smile. “How did you like the scones?”

“They were lovely.”

“Well all right then. Best be off…and do stop smoking inside, will you?”

“Mhmm.”

He listened idly as her soft steps echoed down the stairs, resolving to tether himself to the sofa until John returned. Waited an hour; perfectly catatonic. Only got up once to put on a nicotine patch. It didn’t really help, though. The flat darkened considerably, the air still and cool, smelling of static and rain. Twenty minutes later he heard the familiar, beautiful sound of John’s steps pattering up the stairs.

“Where were you?” he asked the moment before the door swung open. Once again his doctor was covered in rain, a trio of plastic bags clasped in his hand. Two from Tesco and one takeaway. He’d clearly been caught in the bad weather and just come out of the tube. Sherlock watched as he kicked off his shoes and windbreaker.

“ _Miserable_ out there. Sleep well?”

“Not particularly.”

“I’m sorry to hear.”

“Are you?”

No answer. No matter; question had been rhetorical.

Sherlock rolled off the couch and lazily walked across the room. He sniffed the air intently: peanut, cilantro, hint of chili powder.

“Noodles.”

John propped the takeaway bag on the dining table. “Thought you’d be hungry.”

He was hungry. He was actually starving. Watching John bustle about the kitchen now, and being in such domestic proximity to the man after the whirlwind of events prior, was more than a little unnerving. Another moment later there was a bowl of noodles in his hand, heavy and warm. Sweet smell. John had even remembered to give him chopsticks (he preferred chopsticks because they required dexterity and coordination, a bit more higher processing).

“Are you sure you’re all right, Sherlock?”

The voice was firm; not demanding, but definitely concerned. Sherlock abruptly stopped shoving the noodles into his face; had to stop and wonder if they tasted good; he was eating too quickly and not really tasting anything. Not really chewing either. He was instantly defensive, and stared at John with his cheeks full.

“Why wouldn’t I be all right? I’m _eating_ ; obviously I’m all right.”

He perched on the corner of the dining table. John folded his arms.

“You’ve been though a lot; no harm in talking about it. Although I can venture a guess.”

Suddenly he didn’t want to eat any more. Felt anxious. Fluttery. Liked that John was reading him but didn’t like that he liked it. “Go on then.”

“You’re still worried that I won’t have sex with you.”

Wanted to lie. Couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

“There’s something else, isn’t there.”

Sherlock looked into the bowl, stirred the contents idly. How to say it? Heat was pooling in his chest; the ceramic felt like a strange bulbous appendage; had to cup his hand beneath it; fingers were too sweaty and slippery.

“It just worries me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s true, John. It’s all true.” Hand was shaking now; always the left hand – had to put the bowl down. “Do you see?”

He closed his eyes, it didn’t help. Felt the weird tickle in his sinuses. John was there; right there, didn’t want to crack in front of John but it was happening and his face felt hot and he knew the lacrimal glands were likely swelling. Lacrimal. _Lachrymose_. What an ugly word; almost choked on it without saying it. He started to back away, remembered the table was right behind him, covered his eyes. John was there; right there, pushed against him, and he could feel an immense heat radiating from the flannel.

“Sherlock.” John coaxed the hands away. “Hey. It’s all right; I said I would take care of you. Look at me.”

“Look at _me_ , John. Look at this!” He was shaking even more now, even starting to sweat. “He was right.”

“What, _Mycroft_? Oh, you don’t seriously –”

“Can’t you see? I’m an _addict_.”

There it was. Said. Done. He smiled (it was more of a grimace) and pushed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets lest they start oozing; what a mess this all was. Danger night. Danger night. The hiss before the pop. Now that he’d said it he wished he could take it back, pluck the words from the air, swallow them down again, exhale them like smoke, forget everything. He felt the dull ache crawling into his chest, caving it in. Treacherous body. Loathsome body. John steadied him.

“Sherlock. Listen to me. I know you. And I knew what I was getting myself into.”

Sherlock lowered his arms; glared at John, made no attempt to hide the eyes this time. “Oh, did you?”

“I’ve known for ages that you fancy me. I know it drives you mad. You weren’t exactly discreet about it…”

“So you threw me a bone and watched me dance.” Sherlock studied the small stretch of floorspace between them. John’s hand was on his face, brushing the water away.

“No. I didn’t say that. That’s not what it was. That’s not what it is now.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t know. It’s all a bit weird, isn’t it? But I like it, and I like not knowing.”

“Well I don’t.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Why do you keep doing it?”

“Because I want to. Because you need it. And, well, maybe I like you a bit more than I should.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks tingle at this, and he scoffed. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t do that thing. With the caring.”

John leaned in and mumbled against Sherlock’s throat. “You know I do. I’m protective of you. I can’t help it; I’m a doctor.”

“And you find me attractive.” Not a question or a statement.

“You’ve no idea how gorgeous you are. Especially when you come.”

Sherlock felt his entire body starting to stiffen; the heat was filling him up, flooding him, he leaned back, pressed his palms flat behind him on the table. Something fell off, fell to bits; didn’t matter.

“I want it, John…and I hate that I want it.”

“I know.” John kissed him softly on the lips. It was warm and nice, but all wrong. He was beyond frustration now. Shaking. Desperate. “You don’t understand.”

A strange smugness seemed to darken John’s features.

“Don’t underestimate me.”

The doctor tipped Sherlock’s chin down and pulled their faces close together, breathing hotly against his parted lips before sealing them together. Sherlock nearly fell off the table, but John had him anchored, and he instinctively opened his legs and let John nestle comfortably between them. His hand stopped shaking immediately.

“John,” he breathed. He needed it. Now. John was a step ahead of him, grinding into him and slowly trailing his tongue along the tendon of the neck, kissing the slope of the trapezius, pushing his tongue into the hollow of the throat. Sherlock moaned John’s name again; it was all he could say, all he could think. _Please_ , he said. God, he was so hard. So ready.

John’s hand was already through the zip of Sherlock’s trousers. “What do you need?”

Sherlock squirmed against the hand, hot and smooth, dripping all over it. He tried to cover his eyes but John swatted his hands away. “What do you need, Sherlock?”

Brain was on fire. Information overload, great rush of heat; he trembled and shook his head. His mouth felt slack, tongue too thick, how on earth was he supposed to express the noise between his ears?

“John,” he panted. So close already. “I can’t. I’m going to—”

“Mmm, not like this you’re not. Stand up for a second.” Sherlock slid off the table, landing on the balls of his feet, clinging to John’s shoulders. The next thing he knew, his trousers and pants were down around his ankles and John was on his knees.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Oh, god.”

“Take these off,” John mumbled, giving Sherlock’s prick a languid lick on the head with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock kicked off his trousers and pants and leaned against the table as John settled between his thighs and easily swallowed him from root to tip. Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth and bit down on his fingers; moaning loudly in spite of himself; and actually a bit embarrassed at how high his voice sounded. But the tight, wet heat around his cock was absolutely insane, and John was insane, suctioning his lips just so around the head, poking his tongue into the slit, surfacing only to kiss and lick. Sherlock looked down and couldn’t believe he was looking at his own body; John was so incredibly graceful from this angle, cerulean eyes watching him all the while, cheeks reddened from the effort of sucking – it was almost picturesque – and it was too much; of course he was going to lose it, and he started to push back a little, but John read him. He could always trust John to read him. Sherlock panted and fell against the table as the doctor pulled away.

“Don’t stop – I’m so close, I can’t — oh, god.”

“Do you want to fuck my mouth?”

Sherlock vigorously shook his head no. John laughed and leaned further back, hovering his mouth mere centimeters above the tip of Sherlock’s erection. He then licked his lips again and stuck out his tongue; let a string of saliva swing torturously slowly before it landed on the very tip.

“ _Oh, god_ ,” Sherlock said again.

“Come and get it.” The mouth opened. The tongue teased. Sherlock inched his hips up, just enough so that the tip of his cock dipped between John’s lips.

“I can’t,” he sighed. “I really can’t.”

John gave an adamant lick. “Let me taste it.”

Sherlock somehow managed to ease off the table and get to his feet. Now that he was standing he was much too tall to aim for John’s mouth, and so he yanked a fistful of those ashen blonde locks, positioning the mouth accordingly. John anchored his hands under Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock again pushed his cock into that wet heat. John closed his lips. Suction. Sherlock kept one hand anchored in John’s hair while the other hand occupied his mouth. He gnawed on a finger as he thrust up into those waiting lips.

“That’s it,” John said quickly before Sherlock pushed in again. He felt his eyes roll back in his skull, felt his face split into a satisfied grin, because it was here, the apex of the mystical experience, swelling in the lower recesses of his abdomen, and he was gritting his teeth and leaning back against the table, kicking and sighing and John was gracefully sucking down every shot he issued forth, before sitting back again and milking the residual globs straight into his mouth. Sherlock fell to his knees, to the ground, curled his body up tight. John laughed and stroked his hair.

“You really don’t know how beautiful you are, do you?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock managed to say. He felt around for his pants and lazily pulled them on before falling back onto the ground. His body felt light and vaporous. John was pressed up behind him, arm wrapped round his waist, face buried between the scapulae.

“Been awhile since I’ve done that. Was it any good?” His voice was muffled and throaty. Sherlock squeezed John’s hands in his own.

“Mmhmm,” he mumbled, wiggling contentedly. “So good. You’re so good. You’re perfect. You’ve fixed me.”

“That’s very high praise coming from you. I’ve been told I’m crap at it.”

Sherlock rolled over and kissed John. His lips tasted faintly of salt and caffeine. John grinned, kissed him back. Sherlock clung to him, buried his head in the man’s shirt. Wanted to feel, wanted to smell, wanted to absorb the essence of his doctor. The shirt was soft and worn, and it smelled nice. Tea and scones and toast. John’s hand played in his hair; the touch was soft, perhaps even tender, it sent chills down the back of his neck. He felt safe. Brain wasn’t hurting anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. There was no more confusion, just empty surrender. The gentle resignation to his nature was oddly calming. His phone pinged from somewhere near his feet. He sat up and fished it out of the pocket of his trousers, squinting at the screen.

“What’s it say?”

 _Ruined._ – _MH_

So the flat was bugged. Sherlock jumped to his feet, glanced around all the usual places (flat had been bugged dozens of times before; knew where to look). Nothing was awry. Studied the phone. It was _the phone_ ; there was a tiny gold wire sprouting from the base of it, thin as a hair. Fiber optic recording device. He instantly knew what the text meant. He’d been slow. Hadn’t even noticed; too distracted by thoughts of John. Yes, he’d been slow and he actually didn’t care. He held the thing to his mouth. “Yes, I’m ruined,” he said, ripped out the wire, and threw the phone across the flat as hard as he could. John winced as it shattered against the wall, a mess of glass and circuitry.

John ventured again. “Was it him?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands, his body, the phone, the flat, the skull, the string of shrunken heads draped over the fireplace – he glanced at John, comfortable in his flannel, leaning against the dining table with his arms crossed. He stared at John, saw his answer, saw his comfort – held fast to the tingling sensation all over his body, the lulling of his mind, the quiet mind, the idle mind, he felt light; transparent. Kicked his legs; couldn’t believe he had legs.

“Yes, it was him.”

John put his hands on his hips, furrowed his brow – “Yes, and?”

“I suppose I’ll be needing a new phone.” There was no more reason to think, to analyze – his brother knew, had always known, addict or not, and it didn’t matter anymore. Mind and body spun independently of one another now, uniting only for that one chance moment; the little stab in the everpresent nothingness– and lo, there was his doctor, looking furrowed and pensive, opening the sweet mouth to utter some more little words of concern, but Sherlock did not hear them, his hands found the doctor’s collar, yanked him in for a kiss, crushed their lips together, the hips ground forward; he felt John rise against him, hot and hard, he licked that parted mouth, moaned into it, “ _Now_ ,” he breathed; he would not wait a _second_ longer, wanted to be filled up, wanted to be wrung dry – he was ready to surrender, ready to resign himself to his nature, to the ruinous body, the treacherous body – “Now?” John asked, blushing in spite of himself, as though abashed, as though unsure. Sherlock pushed against him, trembling against the friction –  

“Right now. Right here.”

John winced, pushed back a little – “Well, maybe not _here_.”

“ _Come on_ ,” he whined. John snatched the bag from the coffee-table and dragged Sherlock to his own bedroom (likely because it was closer) where he fell onto the bed, on his back, knees bent at perfect 90 degree angles – he had no register of what John was doing; his eyes had fallen shut in sweet anticipation – John was suddenly on top of him – he fumbled with the buttons on the flannel, felt the smooth expanse of John’s back, cupped his hands around the scapulae, rolled his palms in the small layer of fat over them, relished this, relished the solidness of the body, the _nowness_ of everything, everything rising, ripening, unfurling – he watched John undress in awe, and he quickly wriggled out of his clothes, grinding against the sheets, idly prodding John’s bare sternum with the pad of his foot, _I’m ready,_ he said, the mouth said, words pushed back in by John’s tongue, hot and wet and curious, still tasting of salt and musk.

Another string of sounds, mostly vowels, dripped from his mouth as John pushed a slick finger into him, the feeling exquisitely tight and wet – the teeth were bared now, pure frustration – _would you bloody_ _get on with it_ , he hissed, John smiled and slipped another finger in.

“Look at you,” John teased. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’re in pain.”

He _was_ in pain, the pain of wanting, the pain of needing to be filled up – one of his feet had become curious – it traced the length of John’s torso, nudged under his chin – John grinned and playfully nipped at the big toe – Sherlock snaked it down to the man’s cock, which was fully engorged of course, ripe and flushed and wonderful – gave it a nudge, pushed it up against the belly, issuing forth a clear pearl of pre-ejaculate – as well as a satisfied growl. It took him a minute to realize that John wasn’t teasing him; but _stretching_ him, moving his fingers in a sort of scissoring motion –

“All right?”

He nodded vigorously. It wouldn’t have even mattered if he wasn’t all right. His body wasn’t his anymore and that was fine, it was all fine, John would have it, he would have it all – John kissed his forehead, fingers working – kissed his cock, just a light brushing kiss on the crown but it made him quiver with want, mind wiped, eyes glazed open, mystified because, yes _, it was mystical_ –

John removed his fingers after that – Sherlock arched his back against the mattress, drawing the navel in close to the spine – traced his hands all over his own body – John again playfully asked what he was doing.

He also barely noticed that John was rolling on a condom and slicking it up and lifting his arse up with a hand, teasing the head inside

“Am I hurting you?”

“ _I’m fine, just do it_.”

“Mm, all right, all right. Relax.”

He tried; felt his body involuntarily tense as John pushed in a bit more, bit back the pain – scowled at the layer of wet which was clouding his vision, whimpered against John’s shoulder, bit down on it – hooked his legs round that supple waist, everything was a slick tangle of flesh – he felt his eyes fall shut, John was kissing his eyelids, pushing into him and he was starting to push back and he glanced down and saw that he was hard again and leaking all over his belly because John was hitting him right where he needed it and it was like last time but different because now he was here, in the moment, wrapped up in the nowness, the closeness, the pressure, the _pleasure wrapped in pleasure_ –

It was dizzying; the intimacy, the heat, John breathing heavily, moaning softly – he hadn’t expected his doctor to be so quiet – he opened his legs wider, opened his mouth wider, licked John’s lips, bit John’s lips – _it is all right_ John asked again and he couldn’t answer so he just made a noise, a strange vibration rising from his throat. The words would not come but they didn’t need to; he could trust John to read him; and of course he did, _of course he did_ , because suddenly his cock was cupped in John’s hand and then everything became a litany of surrender all over again and all he could see was white.

John kissed him as he spilled all over his stomach and even a bit on his own chest, hot and gooey; there was much less of it now than half an hour earlier but the feeling was no less _momentous_ and he was trembling all over, curling his toes, smiling and sighing, melting into the sheets in the way that only John could make him melt, but John stopped pushing, wiped the sweat from his brow—

“Come on,” Sherlock panted. “You must be close.”

“I am.” The doctor was grinning, sweaty and flushed. “I just want to drink it all in.”

“Drink what all in?”

“This. You. Everything.”

Sherlock pouted and rolled his hips up, smirking as John’s cock twitched inside him.

“Finish it. Come on. Take what you need. Never mind me.”

Never mind me. Never mind my body; the body. In this moment the body exists for something new: to seek pleasure. To fulfill John’s pleasure. John; his doctor, his protector. Sherlock watched his hands as they settled around John’s neck, tracing circles at the nape, fingers folding into the hair, brushing sweat away from the forehead – he watched those eyes all the while, deep blue; burning and ethereal. John tensed all over, tucking his head into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, taking and taking and taking and moaning, actually saying his name over and over until it became little more than a hiss and a breath, and suddenly they clung to each other. Sherlock bit down on John’s ear simply because it was there and he was there and he could, and he wiggled a bit as John pulsed inside him, dogged and panting, and afterwards they lay in a sweaty heap with lube and semen splashed up obscenely between them, and they remained this way for what seemed like a long time even though it wasn’t, and everything was radiant and strange and confusing, and maybe even a little unsettling, but somehow it was all fine, more than fine. It was perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know if this is a happy ending.
> 
> If it is, then it certainly isn't a happy ending in the traditional sense. Nonetheless, writing this was an incredible experience and something tells me the story will not stop here. Expect an epilogue or bonus/deleted scenes at some point. 
> 
> If you have read this entire thing I cannot thank you enough. Thank you to all of you, those of you who have encouraged me from the beginning, left kudos and comments. Even if you only read half of it. Even if you skipped to the end. I wrote this whole thing without a beta and I was never sure of myself. This was my first real serious Sherlock fic and your feedback has been incredibly encouraging. Thank you <3.
> 
> I love feedback of any kind and I respond to every single person who comments. PLEASE forgive any errors you encounter; they will all be resolved in time.
> 
> edit: oh!! and happy Johnlock day<33

**Author's Note:**

> Well the title is going to stay. It grew on me and I guess it makes sense in relation to the rest of the fic.


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